Turquoiselle by Tanith Lee (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

of him, with the drugs, the darkness,all those Mantik matters they wanted. Though he had not known much. Maybe,thinking him evasive... Had he even been fully tortured? He had no wounds, ofcourse, no pain, and no memories of such events. Butneither had he recalled the bathing, and cleaning of his teeth – yet it hadhappened. Whatever they had wanted to happen had happened, But why – why didthese people, a surveillance team monitoring Mantik, rescue him – if rescue ithad been? Why did they want him at all?

“SoI’m special,” Carver said quietly. “Again, why?”

“Oh,you’ll see in due course. Do you remember the woman called Silvia Dusa?”

“She’sdead.”

“Soshe is, but a while before that tragic occurrence, she contacted us. Shealerted us – to you. That was her mistake, yousee, Car. And yours was in not realising. Silvia had come over to us. She wasn’thappy about Mantik’s plans. So Mantik set you both up, and then – shall I say helped her on herterminal way in that public house. Just as they would have you, Carver,somewhere or other. Also in due course. But that’s all over now. You’re safe.You’re with us.”

“Whereare we?” said Carver. “England where?”

“Kent.That’ll do for now.”

“Who are you?”

“I’vetold you our nature, but you’d like an actual name? We don’t have one. Not evenin our official or office slang. We’re just – us. Welcome to us, Car. Makeyourself at home.”

Thirteen

In the dream, hesaw the coloured flowers blotted on the meadows, the wilder walks around thecollege. White daisies, red and magenta clovers... And then the huge clippedlawn, with its area for spontaneous rough football, and the river you couldswim in. They had taught him to swim, and once or twice he had even playedfootball – those items he had been meant to have had taught to him at theschools. He liked the aloneness and the space – and yet keeping the consolidatedsteady link to the house. It was a big house, and quite old, 17th Centuryperhaps. Or bits of it. There was an orchard with apples. He had never likedapples before, but these had a sharp sweet acid kick, better than the gin hehad once illicitly tried at age ten and a half. He did not ever like booze anyway. He did not like or respond to ‘teaching’ – but here, somehow, he did. Helearned other things than swimming and games.

Helearned to read properly, that was, to take stuff in, hold and analyse and sofind out what it meant. He learned where countries were, and how they worked,or were believed to, and how to calculate mathematically, multiply, qualify,equate. The correlation of numbers, words, codes. To think things through.

Helearned that.

Nobodyever forced. Nobody nagged or pursued if you missed some class or talk. But inthe end, you did not miss so many. The meals were good, the ‘canteen’. He hadhis own room, and it was of reasonable if hardly giant size. He had a musiccentre and TV, ultimately use of a computer, only slightly restricted, forrecreation or research. The college was not crowded; its students were ‘selected’and both male and female. He had sex.

Bythen, his horizons partnered, both narrowing and expanding. They were becoming concentrated. He wasaltered, but altered potentially into himself. He seemed to lose nothing he hadwanted. But gained extras. He still stole things. He kept them in the desk inhis room, which could be opened by his using – not a key – but a sequence ofnumbers he had chosen and, presumably, (years later he was not so certain ofthis), known only to himself.

Inthe dream, he saw the flowers in the meadows. He did not care that they wereflowers, or beautiful, or helpful for the environment, but they were part ofthe new life he had had. They were, (then) the Now.

Hewas by the river next, in the dream. About fifteen, he thought, or sensed. Andhe glanced up, and on a rise beyond the slow green summer water, he noticed astone bench. Heavy was sitting there. Heavy, who he had never seen again afterthat day in the park, after the advent of Sunderland and the college.

Heavywas grown up. Thirty or forty, possibly. Incredibly obese and ungainly, yetsomehow he had been poured into a vast and elegant grey suit, the kind powerfulguys wore in movies from around 1948. He had rested back his peculiar head, andstretched out his froggish legs, crossing them loosely at the ankles.

Carverwas pleased to see Heavy, yet startled, in the dream. He was going to call outto Heavy when Donna moved up close to him across the bed, and put her hands onhis spine, and then around him to his stomach, low down, not quite touching hisgenitals. The dream faltered and started to swirl off.

Hewoke in the dark. Yes, she was close up against him.

Workingon him slowly, softly, with a feline determination. In the beginning, thecommencement of their relationship, he had made the advances more often thanshe. But then it came to be almost always Donna who moved first. Lascivious andeager. It was easy for him to respond, of course. Even once she began to alter,to become more impatient, unreasonable in other areas, even eventually in thearea of sex: “You don’t like me really, do you, Car? I’m not what you wanted. Isaw you look at that bitch in the restaurant. She’s more your type. Isn’t she?” Or, withdeadly ‘reasonableness’ – “Don’t if you don’t want to. You’re too tired. No.Another night.” Although he never did make it ‘another night’ but always thatone, right then, once she had – what? – propositioned him – laid hands on him –her pretty, long-fingered hands, with long painted nails, warm, urgent,fragrant with faintly chemical handcreams, the scent of unreal lilies, ofroses, daisy-flowers, clover –

“Donna...”he said, and turned over, the last papery fragments of the dream crumbling fromhim into thin air.

Herscent was different tonight. It was smoky and deeper – a cello note that hadbeen a staccato piping – her skin – was like – velvet – it – There was a faintlight in the room after all. Therewas no pallor to